


The Damned and the Elect

by devitaexire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:17:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devitaexire/pseuds/devitaexire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of one thing Adam was certain; predestination had brought them all this far, and it would continue to screw him over if he let it. Michael has other lessons to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Damned and the Elect

Adam had been brought to awareness by something that could only be described as the sensation of sinking upwards. It was, admittedly, what he’d envisioned dying to be like, only, he’d died before, and he didn’t remember dying. At least, the death he did remember was full of pain and blood and violence and this.. just was.

Judging by the calendar, it had been a grand total of four months since he— _Michael.—_ had fallen into the pit with Sam— _Lucifer._ —and.. everything was surprisingly normal. But he was at a loss. He’d awoken in a warm, clean bed in a warm, clean room of a warm, clean flat in (predictably, for nothing was ever simple,) Detroit. All attempts at research suggested that he’d just bought the place and moved in. The neighbours thought, after that first week, that he’d been hit on the head or had some kind of mental disease. Maybe he did.

Because whilst Adam remembered, he couldn’t quite _remember_. He remembered that light, Dean’s departure, that bright, brilliant light, a slow, melodic voice, and then nothing. Other than the occasional snapshot of warmth, safety and then—here. He thinks he might have been in heaven, but heaven wasn’t like that—Wasn’t light or warmth or anything. It was memories—Happy memories, of course. But Adam couldn’t live in the past, it drove him insane, living events that had already happened again and again, and he imagined once that maybe heaven was subjective and what would happen if he picked up the knife Mr. Jameson was using to cut the birthday cake of the girl he’d liked and killed them all like the ghouls had killed him—

Adam exists. Of this he’s fairly certain, (as certain as anyone can be of such an assertion,) and he exists in relative peace for three weeks. It is then that he begins to grow restless, pacing the walls of this perfectly human cage like a captured animal before he decides to leave. He finds himself sat on a bench two towns over by the time his feet are walked raw and sore, staring at an old, gnarled oak that looks older than the earth itself. He wonders if that’s where people find God, in those things that never began, not in human memory, they just were and just are and always will be.

A man in a truck suggests that Adam might be lost. Adam thinks he might be right, and he lets the man take him back to where he could be found, that flat in Detroit with the one window that seems perpetually frosty even on a clear summer’s day. And then one day—Adam’s lost count of how many days, how many long walks and bruised ~~souls~~ soles later—he has a visitor.

The man—(Not the man in the truck, for that would be odd and Adam might find himself concerned by that, hunting instincts ingrained, warrior’s soul and heart and mind fighting even when his body is weary with not-remembered happiness,) stands in the center of the room a tub of water, (Warm, Adam notices, it’s faintly steaming,) watching him. He looks familiar, but Adam can’t quite place him, and is alarmed—But only by the fact that he isn’t alarmed, staring mutely at this stranger- _friend-_ stranger like he cannot bring himself to be concerned by his presence. _Oh._

Michael.

 _Adam_ , Michael says. Or rather, thinks, because Adam doesn’t recall hearing it, but then there’s blood rushing through his ears as his heart nearly stops from the shock of it all, “Adam.”

And then he’s kneeling, drawing one of Adam’s feet up into his hand to lay it on his thigh where the muscle is pulled taut by his position. His head dips downwards. “Please.”

Adam’s heel is cradled reverently in Michael’s palm, the angel’s other hand resting feather-light on the bridge of his foot as he lowers it into the water, fingers—Rough, Adam notices, worked hands—tracing the lines and bruises that mark Adam’s foot, tracing away the pain.

 _“You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am.”_ Michael murmurs, and Adam finds himself watching the curve and twist of the angel’s lips as he speaks. Michael draws up an impossibly soft towel and dries across Adam’s damp flesh, making sure to tend every nook and cranny. “ _Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.”_

Adam wants to strike out, force Michael away with scathing words, a laugh, _so kinky, Michael, and you’re supposed to be an angel,_ but Michael lowers his head and presses his lips, warm and dry and slightly chapped, to the arch of Adam’s foot and the boy is so struck by just how tender the gesture is that he is rendered speechless by it. He ignores the moisture that gathers in the corner of his eyes, ignores the hysterical sob that rattles out of his chest in favour of lancing the sharp knot of what he realizes is loneliness, desperation.

Michael’s eyes are impossibly blue and seem to almost glow as he looks up at the boy, and then down as Adam slides from the couch and into his lap. Michael can offer nothing more than comfort anymore, Adam collapsing into sobs and for once in what is a very long— _too long, oh Lucifer, I’m so sorry—_ time, Michael cradles the young man as he cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink bingo prompt: foot fetish


End file.
